Page 86 of On Brutal Thrones

The blue fire still separates us. Even if we started running now, we’d never make it around the perimeter fast enough to catch them. And chasing three warlocks empowered by Valtor while they’re carrying the very weapons we nearly died to retrieve would be suicide.

We can only watch them go.

Eventually, the blue flames begin to shrink. When they’re barely an inch above the ground, Thorian steps across first.

His boots crunch against blackened earth.

The rest of us follow, picking our way through what remains of camp. The smell hits me first. Smoke, scorched earth, burned pine, and the bitter remnants of magic.

Everything is charred and scattered.

It feels like returning to a town after a tornado has torn through it, except this wasn’t random destruction. The Vultures came here for us. And they got exactly what they wanted.

Not only did the warlocks take our weapons, but they made sure to destroy everything else too.

Our only bedroll is still smoldering. Thorian stamps out the last glowing embers, though there’s hardly anything worth saving. Both canteens lie in the dirt with deep boot prints crushed into their sides, water trickling from the seams and disappearing almost instantly into the thirsty ground. What remained of the rabbit Fenric had started drying for our packs has been thrown into the dirt and ground beneath someone’s heel.

I stare at the wreckage, smelling smoke and burned meat, and for some reason, this feels like the worst of it.

It isn’t. I know that.

But I’m so tired.

We lost the golden weapons. Worse, the Vultures have them now. We don’t even know what they do, and Magnus might. The thought settles over me with crushing weight. After everything we survived to reach this point, it feels like we’ve just handed our enemies the means to kill us.

My knees give out, and I sink into the dirt as a small, pathetic sob escapes me.

I wish I could be stronger for them. I wish I could let all of this roll off me like they seem to. But every time I think the Trials have hardened me enough, another horror proves they haven’t. The first competitor who died. The shifter falling from the bridge. The children in the Trial of Souls. Even that poor mouse beneath the flowers yesterday.

None of it has stopped hurting, and maybe I don’t want it to. But right now, it feels like I’m breaking beneath the weight of all of it.

“Hey.” Fenric crouches beside me, his warm hand settling between my shoulder blades. “Take a breath. It’s okay, Nyx.”

“The weapons are gone.” The words come out broken, another sob tightening my chest. “They have them.”

Beyond the cliff, the first pale streaks of sunrise are creeping over the horizon.

Of course.

No more sleep. No chance to recover. The final day is already beginning, and I can barely keep myself upright.

“Nyx.” Talon crouches on my other side. His hand is cool where it closes around mine, such a sharp contrast to Fenric’s warmth that I focus on the sensation. “We survived. That’s all that matters.”

I shake my head. “I can’t do it. I’m sorry. I’m not strong enough. I’m not.”

“Think about your sister.”

“Lyra.” I take a deep breath.

We manage to salvage very little from the ruined camp. Fenric finds our pack with its straps still intact, and Talon recovers a canteen from beneath the wreckage. When I turn away from the destruction, Thorian is behind me, the pastel light of dawn touching his face. There’s a dagger in his hand.

The dagger from the silver chest.

Our group moves to the chest. The plain steel weapons inside catch the growing light. Thorian has already sheathed his sword, while Fenric’s and Talon’s wait for them.

The weapons from Soryn.

Maybe.